From an Upper Floor

In Universal Purpose. . .

The Ultimate In Universal Purpose. . . .

Because I was told in a million ways my unhappiness could be rectified if only I would. . . and the list was endless. And the harder I tried and longer I worked because it was love that gave constructive criticism I was told and believed, till I finally realized that the only difference I could make was within myself , changing me and my feelings. The Teacher replied and I scribed in February, 1995. . . .

‘when passion is exhausted, wisdom begins. It is only from having lived a life to the fullest, having gleaned what you have, that you can go gently into your good night.

Because you have worked on these things and questioned your Source, you now are in an envious position making your times rewarding. There is no need now to strive to change a world that requires individual change. Since you have learned there is no mass evolution and long accepted this classroom situation, you know the envisioned paradise can only be achieved on an individual basis.

You wrote the promised land is in the heart. It is not a place except as one strives toward greater understanding of the self. And neither is heaven a paradise of cloud hovering. It is of work and things to learn. It will be of self improvement, self understanding and understanding of the greater god, the ultimate in universal purpose.’

And because of greater understanding of self and one’s Source, one then becomes extremely sensitive to Others in connection and commitment. Understanding itself becomes two edged, both a curse and a blessing. To live with the ability to understand does not necessarily make life easier. Sometimes it only makes life bearable. Endurance has a high value. The greater question becomes then what can I do to love more? Not the easiest when the irritations are constant. Being human is a hard work.

Consider This. . .

What makes you think
we do not use
a worker who thinks
and injects new thought
in old ways?

What makes you think
we would let loose
the likes of you
in a world for frolic,
for nothing more than waste?

We look for farmers
for the vineyards,
for the fields needing seeds,
for food. . .
for thought. . .
for starving minds
as well as bodies.

Where we put you
is in a place of value,
of your talents,
of your loves,
of your sweet thoughts
feeding the children of all ages.

How else to sweep clean the Father’s House?

A Given in January, 2012

Art by Claudia Hallissey

December 10, 2017

Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
The Rose In December. . .

I started to make our Christmas cards when I couldn’t find a card to translate our hearts when our David was diagnosed with cancer. Many of our friends over the years have kept the cards I have made. It warms my heart to hear them called the Veronica Files. My efforts in artwork have always been primitive, but my poetry has been a Given when I knew not what Given was and I scribed. Our memories, both painful and joyous create who we are. I will share what I can find in the boxes of efforts I could not part with. I awakened this morning with The Rose In December and thought it a fine beginning but could find only one card with artwork. Still primitive but I hope my work will have meaning.

The Rose In December. . .

The first frost of winter
has caught the bud unaware.
But lo, the edges

are burned at the fringes,
closed tight and full.
The rose will bloom again

in December, I promise.
Look to the bush along the fence,
its roots buried, frozen.

The upright branch will sponsor
the blooming rose.
You will pluck it and know

I do not make light promises.

December 9, 2017

Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
Still In A Time Of Infamy. . .

Pardon Me While I Cry. . .

My oldest brother Edward was 20 years old on December 7, 1941 and I was 10. I will never forget my mother’s tears and lamentations when word came over the radio that Pearl Harbor was under attack. ‘Matko Bosko’ (mother of god) she wailed. Edward was in the Navy at Pearl Harbor. We were a large family of eight siblings and concerning us was the business of clothing and feeding. Any thoughtful considerations were done in the privacy of mind and never discussed such as world conditions or philosophy.

Only when I became a parent on premises did I forge the thoughts that my concerns and battles were fought visibly and invisibly. War itself was not the answer to man’s problems and never has been. Scars are formed and are never covered even by keloid tissue grown to resemble normalcy. These scars carry into generations and progeny still to be born. And we are kin forever.

Edward is one of the few alive from that war whose memories of this day are keen. So are mine as that child of ten. He will be sought for this day to speak for his time on that fateful day. My memories will haunt me because as a mother who carried life beneath my heart and gave birth to souls who were part of who I am, I will forever hold that war is not the solution for thoughtful humans. Life is a sacred existence of which we are part of. As thoughtful Beings, our behavior through life on this planet Earth, gives us the responsibility to use our minds for solutions which give hope to all in the Universes who observe us. We are accountable.

Pardon Me While I Cry. . .

So long to have to yearn
for times that show love
for what is ordinary.
The times where toast burned
while the children wrestled
with their cod liver oil.

Times when snow suits bulged
over sweaters that were designed
only as the outside shield.
But these tears I weep
to see young hearts leave home
forever are ragged.

The old men are sitting
in their three piece suits and
playing war games
while parents cry.
It was a lark for them,
these war games playing
king of the mountain.

And now the young leave
their homes of ordinary days
and ordinary duties.
For real guns and other weapons
of destruction so old men can
vicariously play their games
for a remembered thrill.

These young were not taught
to think of war as
real people killed for real.
They were games played
on hand devices to swallow time.
It was a surprise to them and
a heavy burden their hearts cannot shrug.
They call it post traumatic stress disorder.

So pardon me while I cry my ragged tears
still in a time of infamy.

artwork by Claudia Hallissey

December 7, 2017

Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
Centuries To Arrive. . . .

Centuries to get here . . . .

There are those of us who are sensitive to our inmost thoughts and often we consider them nightmares. A favorite writer tells of his dreams that leave him unanchored. They take his equanimity and disable him. Like his, my journey for years left me with events that had no putting place. Our memory banks are similar. Children with bloated bellies and tears and clenched fists. Sacrifices and incense and swords and hot sands in strange places.

I would suggest the library with its Metaphysical shelves as study for the saints and souls who trudge the inward path. Books were my support because I did not find an Other to match my path. I could not share my nightmares with an Other whose survival depended on their soup bowl not being broken.

Who would understand falling into a limitless depth with shrieking voices on the way to sleep to be caught by strong arms and lifted into Light? And when doors opened within the brain to hear music drifting with arias never concluded and the noisy games in the gym forever unending? I am a generation older than the writer and it has taken a lifetime of footwork to realize it is a gift given.

There are reasons and all not brought to satisfying conclusions yet. Enough though for this world with our finite brains to show others have journeyed and written to let us know they have gone the route. Religions have not focused on the larger picture. Their eventuality will be the absorption into a greater spiritual reality. They are appropriate for this planet and its peoples on diverse paths with more narrowed focus and needing support.

The larger picture requires a stretching of the psychic muscles that seem to embrace what is considered bizarre. Only so because trying to pull the greater picture through the narrow aperture distorts the vision. Other world experience cannot be drawn into this physical reality with its boundaries. They belong in the world they were dreamed. You travel centuries to remember them. Research them; you are special. They are earned glimpses so take pride in your journey. It has taken enormous courage.

Life Everlasting. . .

Without ears to hear, he hears.
Without eyes to see, he sees.
With heart he understands
the small musings
of this limited mind.

I can see, I say for this is mine. . .
only with how I perceive
this limited existence.

Fair enough,
for this time, I think,
but only for this time.
There will be other times
when it will not be enough. . .

And then I grow
unto his splendor. . .
I will be guided unto his doorway
and I will be led . .

And again, I will find
my way home.
Again, I will be led
and there will never be
a final time. . .

It only begins, here and now
and again it will be

time to move on.

December 5, 2017

Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
The Sexual Revolution. . .

The Sexual Revolution . . .

With all that is coming out and many falling from grace, I want to add some thought to what is happening. After a lifetime of building a philosophy because I felt bereft from birth without one, I have studied on a daily basis and have come to some conclusions. They may not sit at all with some, but I want to add some things to consider.

Out of experience with memory has come the fact that we are more than who we represent. I think, as my poetry says, that bleed through is memory. This bleed through of people that I write about are portions of who I am, in different areas as real as I am, or not. Perhaps as I have written, they are more real, and I, the illusion, in this particular reality we say is stable.

If all time is simultaneous, as quantum theory suggests, and I know is, since I have walked with a foot in another world all my life, then we contribute in ways unimaginable to the continuity of cultures that we cannot altogether understand. My ability to use power tools when I was into woodworking, my ability to work physically hard at work that threw an able bodied man into bed, my ability to understand the so called legacies of males, like construction, have given many pause and questioned my female sexuality. Not the least is my feminine desire for male appreciation. But I do not discount my very real description as being harvest for the flies in the sun beaten sand as I walk the camel.

I see myself incarnating both as female and male in lifetimes either simultaneous or linear. Have I been as open and transparent as I have been in this lifetime as a female when I paraded my sexuality as a male? Did I overstep and take advantage of those when I held the power of their intent in my hands? I wonder how much I contributed as a male in society and maybe much but denigrated to a nothing by the sorrow and hurt I caused in order to build a self esteem that was wobbly.

Only if you have wondered the source of your being and place in life can you see how vulnerable mankind is when wearing the costume of choice in a life of perhaps not choice but chance. Has the problem been all male? I know the diminishment of being a female. I am 86 years old so I am not new to the gender. I recognize the soft self esteem of many males throughout my life and coming from a lifetime of 12 males, 2 fathers, 6 brothers, a husband and 3 sons, I think I know them quite well. It took only me to know my gender. In fact the psychiatrists agreed many times that I did more analyzing than patients on the couch.

So in fairness, because until the veil is ripped away and I know myself truly as who I am, I have to acknowledge that through Earth’s life, and the beginning of time, I walked and talked and set to dreaming, and took advantage trying to assuage the tearing away from my Source. And I am sorry, but if mushrooms and daffodils both get many chances to perfect life’s dream, I don’t think one lifetime does it for any man or woman. We come back time and again trying to get it right. We make our mistakes and unless the boot is lifted from the neck of evolution, do we get to move forward.

History has shown how man has gone off to hunt, to war, to spar with the forces of nature since time immemorial. He has kissed his wife goodbye and patted his children on the head to be good and gone off happily too many times for adventures to escape the boring drama of domesticity. Women have known this from the beginning of time and they assessed the work left to them as they were left to parent the sons as well as the daughters. The shot of adrenalin to the male bodies as they drove swords into one another since their beginning was the aphrodisiac to their lives. As civilized men they abhor these seizures and that is what they are. And vow to do better and raise sons of civility. But violence and wars are still on too many agendas.

We are in the midst of cultural change. It is time and women’s lamentations have risen cosmically high enough to warrant action. It has taken a long time since Betty Friedan shouted No, never again!

But hurt and sorrow should take us all to the classroom again. To the classroom to heal ourselves, both men and women and to learn how to raise sons and daughters with self respect intact. We need to find out who first told us we were no good. And why we believed it. The boot has been lifted from the neck of evolution. We hope to see progress again.

November 30, 2017

Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
A Chance For Love. . .

A Chance For Love. . .

Each time is a new time.
Cast in the shadow
of a rock, a cave,
or even a cove. . .

Simply set and
inspired by a rolling coast,
a sunset, a glimpse of
a new place. . .

New tidings of good cheer;
a glass of sweet wine,
robust, quaffed in slow gulps
but favored by a thirsty throat.
Ever new, ever fresh
as a new beginning.

New worlds,
hammering their impatience
with promises;
limited only by how much

we are ready to forget.

November 27, 2017

Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
The Uncovering. . . .

Teach The Lessons Well. . .

Again from a journal entry the Teacher speaks on evolution. . . in the evolution of genes, in cleaning up genetic history, we talk of literally thousands of years. But with emphasis not on the helplessness of man, but with concerted thought and concerted direction, there can be a manipulation of behavior with new guidelines instituted.

Man will manipulate those genes contributing to defective bodies with no question. But the kind of manipulation that requires change in behavior brings on argument. Man has been fed the cliché that says the only person you can change is yourself. What he must realize is that by changing himself, he changes the behavior of all about him.

Behavior that reflects constructive change, reflects goodness and well being outwardly, in every area of public and private life is a large morsel to contend with. The change will be reflected not just in superficial dealings with each other but also in personal relationships.

We say make certain that in all areas there is a behavior that reflects the kind of goodness we choose to like about ourselves. Because of the courage required to come forth many are now speaking of insults to their persons for generations. The revolution has begun and if fortunate, in time to save this blessed classroom from future horrors. And we must teach this lesson well. By example.

(I wrote the following poem in 1986 and know the full weight of it. Please take a moment and read it carefully for the meaning is in the uncovering, literally.)

The Uncovering. . .

Written in the minds of men
are stories waiting
for the uncovering.
Skirting about,
rising through the surface
of parchment shielding the brain
from eruption, are memories,
waiting for recognition.
The memories lay in imagination.

Housed in quarters of familiar terms,
the storehouse yields what man
can comfortably accommodate.
Open wounds charitably protected
from untoward blows,
form reservoirs for occupancy.
Listing toward comfortable complacencies,
which have nested in protection
in an accommodating psyche,
the lessons will prove invaluable.

Couched in terms needing no explanation,
the thoughts will yield improvement
destined for the lot of man.
Singular in judgment, new to the thinker,
the thoughts will lodge immovable
and looking for completion.

The idea will find its home
in the minds of all men
and the revolution begins.
The learned ones will marvel
at the evolution in thinking
and peace with brotherhood
will slowly mark its beginning
in the house of one man.

Nestling in the home will be the children,
safe from untoward shock.
They will be remembering another place
where the promise was given.

It will be as they expected.

photo by Jon Katz

November 25, 2017

Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
Happy Thanksgiving. . . my heart’s gratitude. . .

How Much Of A Difference. . .

It was morning,
though the night still hung heavy;
the clouds hovered,
the sun unable to rise.

The children gathered for breakfast;
morose and angry,
heavy still with sleep.
Mother looked with unhappy eyes
and father, already delayed
flew out the door.

What could she plan
for this crew this night, she wondered,
as she scrutinized each face
when they exited.

That night the same faces
appeared to sup together;
hostile, unable to summon
the good things of the day.
Seated, they glowered
and the mother, with hope
passed the platter.

Have some love, she murmured
as she handed the plate to the eldest.
Puzzled, he helped himself
and in unbelief said to his sibling,
have some love.

And around the table the faces changed
as the platter of love was passed
and with a whisper bestowed its blessing
by each and every one.
The father then picked up a plate to share
and to his surprise murmured, I pass peace.

And around the table peace was passed
to accompany the main course of love
and talks resumed and the world
was given another chance.

On a level we cannot enter,
we cannot know how much of a difference
it takes to make a difference.

Or how little.

(It is my favorite holyday. I share my heart’s gratitude for your time and comments. When time is the one thing we can share, I especially am grateful for your gift. I treat it with great care and reverence and hope I give something of value in return. It truly is my heart’s gratitude.)

November 21, 2017

Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
A Need To Know. . .

In the sixties I wrote a poem called Resolution which ended with the following lines.

(excerpt from Resolution)

I have come into the Light
but what to do?
On the day I was one, I became two.
Now I am two.

What to do but seek and seek again
until I find I walk this earth

not godless.

And following ten years later I wrote having chosen the Nazarene as my mentor. . .

(excerpt from Cactus Jesus)

You said that when I knew you,
I would know me.
We are gods on common ground,
knowing we choose our own Golgotha.
Seeking your divinity,

I found my own.

(from journal entry October 16, 2015. . the teacher speaks.) and the god within had a voice needed to be heard and accounted for. You wrote those words a half century ago. Yet you never tried to unwrap them because the need was not there for them yet and neither was there the courage to respond with a yeah, now I am not godless. You have the Within God and this has been the secret with the many. You have known of it for sometime and long before you were already talking about marching orders and that was when the children were small and needed the teacher mother on hand to give them their enchanted childhood. You know even now that you were given the necessary guidance at the time.

We know the involuntary knowledge puts you on some edge of something. Should you stand and speak for the god within what would you say that would be convincing? Does the average person want the tyrant task master of your life who has been your goad for over 85 years? Coupled with your mother’s jenny genes? What of those who find that they can talk down the desires of that inner god and outplay him/her and quiet their conscience?

I asked my friend Kath why she went to church on Sunday. She said she hoped that what Jesus said was true. Knock and the door shall be opened. I don’t think a knock would be heard in these days of devices and loud noises. I had to crash the gates to be heard. There is a Comforter or a god within that is to be heard bringing to mind all we had forgotten to remember. A friend laughingly said it was an argument as to what we remember and what we need to learn. A need to know was my ohm and armor. And what kept the bridge at a safe distance.

November 19, 2017

Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.
From Where Did You Come ? . .

On September 28, 2017 I posted a segment called Angels Unaware. It was about a dream I had that stayed with me and was highly detailed. A young teacher of hearing impaired students was teaching them how to read people and speak with almost perfect diction. The dream stayed with me and because it was highly emotional, I wrote about it. The topic was one of how our bodies wish to accommodate us by using its totality when parts of us are not working.

When parts fail, other parts of our bodies will take over and lend themselves to fulfilling those functions no longer working. When eyesight fails, other parts of the body will take over and help us to see though our eyes no longer work.

I don’t pretend to understand how bodies work or why my own body works the way it does. My family, both birth family and one I married into just never spoke about these differences except to caution me to be careful what I said in public. It killed spontaneity and because our livelihood depended on the public’s good graces, I seldom spoke in public. Because I was a voracious reader I taught the psychiatrists much about phenomena. One even suggested we bottle creativity and make a fortune.

Imagine my surprise when I read in USA TODAY on November 13, 2017 that sensors will be built into walls and household products and clothes and perhaps into our own body to respond to how we are feeling and thinking. They will be built into the internet of things (IoT) and become fused with artificial intelligence. And unbelievably, Facebook is working on technology that will let you “hear” with your skin. I am not sure where I first learned of the body’s ability to refine parts to substitute for the parts that fail, nor in what world, but I learned many years ago of the body’s ability to see when eyes fail.

I had a friend who often said to people don’t laugh today because next week you will be a believer. Please remember when speaking to a child that the child is much closer to their source than you are. More often than not they remember from where they came. When was the last time (if ever) you gave thought from where did you come?

November 17, 2017

Veronica Hallissey has been writing since the 1960s, with her poetry published in a variety of small press magazines. Born into a farm family in Lockport, NY, and educated at the University of Buffalo and other midwest institutions, she brings and unusual point-of-view to her poetry, combining strong natural images with a deep spiritual language. She lives in Ramona, CA.